The Crow: Wings of Revenge
by SilverclawRose
Summary: When Damien and his father are killed, the crow returns his soul. Damien vows revenge on the gang who murdered them. But Damien is lost, confused, and alone in our world, 'till he meets Erika, the only one who understands his mission. ENDED INCOMPLETE
1. Part One

The Crow: Wings of revenge  
  
By SilverclawRose  
  
Disclaimer: Nope. I don't own The Crow. Actually I do, on DVD, and I love it. But I don't own the idea or anything. But I DO own Damien and Erika, please don't steal my ideas. Don't sue. Me no have much money. Anyway, I'll be updating alot, and now that I've got most of the backround info written, I can really get into the plot. Reviews and helpful comments, no flames. PLEASE REVIEW!  
  
Dedicated to Brandon Lee  
  
The candles on the birthday cake went out, letting loose a cloud of black smoke and clapping.  
  
"Well, my boy, you've come of age. How's it feel to be 18?" the old man asked, mimicking a television reporter. A boy with long black hair spilling messily around his face grined, his green eyes playful.  
  
"Well, Bob, I'm going to Disneyland!" the two waved their hands frantically and coughed between their laughter, trying not to choke. The smoke alarm quitely screwed into the celining began to shriek, causing them to laugh even harder and cover their ears. The man ran a hand through his thinning black hair before he pulled up a kitchen chair. He balanced precariously on it's seat to fanthe air near the loud device, as his son sat at the table before a large cake, still smiling.  
  
"Say Dad...now that I'm 18 and all...." he said sneakily. The man looked down quickly.  
  
"Nope. No way. Not my baby...she's an antique!!" The boy rolled his eyes.  
  
"Aw, come on, can't I take the corvet for a drive just once? Heck, you could come with me! We'll cruise for chicks!" They both began their carefree laughter again, amused at the thought of an old man in a red corvet, winking at pretty young girls.  
  
"Well now, I don't think Emma would be to please with that!" the man said, wobbily climbing down from the stool now that the alarm had stopped. They boy sighed and leaned back. "Now don't you roll your eyes at me, Damien. Emma is a wonderful woman, and I care about her almost as much as I care about you. We've talked about this. I know, she's not your mother...."  
  
"Of course she's not!" Damien jumped in, suddenly upset. "I just..I...oh nevermind." he gazed down at the floor, avoiding his father's look.  
  
"Damien..." the man walked over to his son and heved a huge sigh, before placing a hand on his shoulder. "It's hard. I know. But you're mother will always be waiting for us in heaven. Remember that. Untill then, we've got to live it up, right?" he nuged the boy, who glanced sideways at his dad before grinning a bit.  
  
"I know. I just miss her. But not now, now we have something very, very important to discuss. Something of the utmost urgency." His face went serious, and his eyes widened.  
  
"What?" his dad asked, confused.  
  
"Where I can find the perfect car and work in my new license!" The two spent the rest of the evening picking at cake and discussing cars, reminising about his fathers first car (a shiney, new, 2,000$ Volkswagon bettle. He'd been super-groovy back in his day) and which was better; a hot rod or a mustang.  
  
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	2. Part Two

The streets were lined with grime, and the perpetual fog tat never lifted mde the air heavy with a rotting stench. Erika's heels clicked in patern over the worn out sidewalks, as she drew her black coat closer to her body. The chill air blew through the material, making her skin tighten into goosebumps. Her fishnet stockings were already covered in dirt and scummy rainwater, as it came from the sky in a bone-chilling, never-ending mist. Her normaly well brushed long red hair hung heavy on her head, dragged down by the weight of the rain.  
  
She kept her head bent foward, letting loose a sigh that formed a cold cloud in front of her face. Still 3 blocks from home...or what passed as home at the moment. She was always moving, trying to find a decent dwelling away from gangs and muggers, someplace where she could live in peace and warm darkness, and spend her days painting...she always wanted to paint. But in order to afford anyplace to live, nice or not, she needed to work almost every hour of the day. Currently it was cleaning the back storeroom of a piercing joint, sterilizing the needles and aranging the dyes. She'd had worse jobs, like being the offical 'fish gutter' at a cheap seafood restaurant. But hey, you had to eat. And though she couldn't afford real paints, new brushes, or canvas, she made due with what she found at the pawn shop.  
  
Erika turned a corner, deep in thought about the painting she yearned to create, when she almost walking into a tall man in a brown jacket. He turned his eyes to her, all of her, before giving a leecherous smirk and raising his eyebrows. She paused only for a moment to give a coy grin, making him let down his guard, before she thrust her thick boot into his knee, creating a sastisfying crack and an earsplitting cry of pain. She had bolted down the street before the man hit the pavement, clutching his splintered leg and fairly howling. Guilt was for the weak, she'd come across too many guys to even wait and see if they made a move to corner her. Any guy who looked at her funny was most likely about to be in pain. Serious pain. She'd learnt her morals of attack-first, think later the hard way. On her first day walking alone, right after her parents had died. Some guy made the same look....and she didn't react. The memory still burned in her soul, of the ultimate crime of human nature, aside from murder. She'd barely gotten away with her life...but she lost her confidence in human nature.  
  
She sighed again, a habbit, and turned onto a small stoop, opening a large grey door. The stairs were dark except for the eerie glow of one lightbulb, hanging lonely from the cobweb encrusted ceiling. She climbed 5 flights of stairs before she came across her own battered door, and went in. Her room was dark, as always. She couldn't afford much electricity, and had to make due with some misshaped candles. After bolting the door and locking it, she fell back onto the small cot, kicking her boots off. All around the cot was paper and paints, spread haphazardly over every avaiable space. Some were splattered with color, some were all just black. It was the one canvas hanging on the wall, perfectly white and clean. That was her love. Someday, she'd paint on it. She'd paint a painting to make the gods look in wonder. It was mostly what she lived for, that one new canvas and the promise of her masterpiece to someday be. She'd slept on the streets for a week to afford it. It was worth it. Her blue eyes glanced up at it momentarily, and her pervious dark mood eased. The cot creaked as she rolled over, and a few tears somehow escaped at the corners of her eyes.  
  
"This is my life..." she whispered, feeling mnore alone then ever before.  
  
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	3. Part Three

Yay! New part 4 is up! Enjoy! Normal disclaimer, yadda yadda, enjoy!  
  
  
  
Damien sat up watching tv for a few hours while his father left. To be with her. The woman who masquaraded as his mother, always asking him about his day, his feelings. But he couldnt tell her his feelings, that kind lady. His father cared about her too much, and he knew that if he told the truth, it would explode out of him. How much he missed his mother. How he hated to see his father with another woman. How his father was changing from the strong, loving idol that his son had always known to a man begining to feel the tight pull of age, absorbing himself in his bussiness and relationship. But Damien never said this. He was always 'feeling just fine, thanks.' After all, Emma was a very nice person, tall and pretty, in her early 40s, who enjoyed being a kindergarden teacher in one of the cleaner parts of the city. She was as decent a woman as you could ever find in a place where crime was a daily event that most just tried to avoid. But she wasn't his mother. He wanted his family back. He wanted the days back in the suburbs, playing on the lawn with his mother, catching butterflies before going off to 1st grade, then running to his father as they arrived home at the same time, to both run, laughing, to tackled his mother with hugs. It was hard.  
  
Damien glanced at the clock suddenly, begining to wonder where his father was. It was midnight. His dad was always home by 10:30, no matter what. Damien got up worriedly, wondering if perhaps his father had fallen asleep at his desk. He grabbed his jacket and stepped purposfully out the door, making sure to bolt it. He swung his leg over the seat of his black motorcycle, his 16th birthday present, when he'd gotten his permet. Honestly, he only argued about a car with his dad for fun. Really, he wouldn've been happy just ridding on his motorcycle everywhere. It sure got him alot of attention, when he rode down the back streets to school. The streets where every shadow hid a mugger, durg dealer, or prostitute. He avoided those streets, mostly. But it was the fastest way to his father's company building, Consico. His father was head of the bussiness department, dealing with the companies they sold their products to, and handling the profits and stocks. Consico was a weaponry technology company, they were directly connected to the government, and manufactured prototypes of high- tech weapons. But that was all Damien knew, his father didn't like to discuss his work. It was a major stress in his life, which he expelled by spending time with his son.  
  
His bike roared in the dark streets, where it was oddly silent. Far off siens wailed somewhere, and cats yowled into the smog. It had started to rain lightly, but Damien didn't notice. All he could think about was the million different things that could be wrong...his father had a slight heart problem. Perhaps that was it. He rode for a few more minutes, untill a tall stone building loomed before him, rising high above the appartment buildings and garbage. Damien pulled his bike up to the curb and shut it off, jumping from the seat and taking the entrance stairs two at a time. The glass doors were locked, but he tried to open them anyway. He pasued for a moment to think. Maybe...maybe his father wasn't here. He might have gone home, or stoped at the store...or maybe he'd been locked in by the security guard, who left at 11. Damien fished around in his pocket and found the key, which his dad had left at home, not expecting to need to. Damien walked in quiety, trying not to let his boots echo in the wide reception area. The normally somewhat lively room seemed more like a cave, with still air and the black crouching forms of sofas in the corner. He crept past the main desk, where a swivel chai had been left a few feet away, and a half-empty can of pepsi on the table. It looked like someone had left in a hurry. He peered down at the grey camera consoles, which showed a few empty rooms and hallways, and switched every couple of seconds. No one, no one...there! Damien's eyes went wide, at the fuzzy picture that popped up. It was the material store room, and there was a group of 4 men, all standing in a circle around a chair. And in the chair was...no! Damien turned and ran for the stairwell, rushing to his father's aid. If he waited a second later, he would have seen the camera then focus on another hallway, this one not empty. There was the body of the security officer, apparently dead, and a pool of blood quickly staining the hall carpet.  
  
Damien ran up the 6 flights of stairs with an energy he never knew. His mind had gone blank with shock, all he could think was to help his dad...those men would kill him for whatever reason if he didn't save him. Flashes of his father ran though his mind, while his hair flew back from his face as he jumped up every stair. He came to a pitch black hall, where the only light came from the red 'exit' sign at the other end. He felt along every door untill he heard voices. He paused, listenining for a moment.  
  
''Listen, Bob, you've disapointed us for the last time.''  
  
"Yeah...shame, isn't it. We needed those plans, and unfortunatly you didn't comply" Then his fathers voice came though the door, barely audible. He sounded garbled and weak, as he managed to whisper.  
  
"I tried. The gorvernment..they lock their files...I...don't have access..." There came a loud crack, and his father's voice fell silent. One of the men hacked and spat.  
  
"We really don't give a sh*t if you have 'access', old man. The boss wants his weapons. And you disapointed him. No one disapoints the boss." Damien opened the door slowly, praying it wouldn't squeek at all. He inched into the room, which was halfway filled with large crates. He ducked behind one and peered through the slats. There was the 4 men, like wolves circling their prey. His father's face was bloody and broken, his eyes were swollen shut. The duck tape that tied him to the rough cain was cutting into his wrists and feet, making them bleed. He could barely get a breath through his puffy, blood covered lips, and there was a deep gurgling in his throat. Only one light bulb shone, directly above the group, leaving Damien in a deep shadow. One of the men scratched his stubbly chin, and spit again, this time at his father's face. He didn't react. A large black man was shifting from foot to foot, cradling a large riffle. The 3rd and 4th men both had a handgun pointed at his father's head. One of them laughed. "Well,old guy, now you're in the way. Nighty-night." He cocked his gun and pointed it at the man's head. Damien reactivly threw himself foward, knocking a huge crate onto one of the men and tackling another. The man yelped in surprise, causing the gun to go off at the ceiling. The two other men looked around confused, drawing their guns autamatically. Damien grabed the man's throat, a rage unknown to him burned in his veins. He began to pound he man's head mercilessly against the concrete ground.  
  
"Nobody ::slam:: will harm ::slam:: my father! ::slam::" The black man pulled himself up and lunged at Damien, grabbing the boy by the jacket and throwing him with surprising strength at the wall. He felt himself lifted, then a sharp pain to his head made everything go black.  
  
When he woke up, at first the only thing he could understand was a pain, unlike any other pain, throbbing through his head. He tried to lift his hand, but he couldn't. When he finally managed to open his eyes, everything spun around him. A voice came from every direction tauntingly.  
  
"What's the matter, hero? Head hurt?" Voices...all around him...laughing...spinning. He closed his eyes again and tried to focus. WHen he opened them, he could see where he was. The men had tied him to a chair with bungee cord, and they were in some sort of metal...pipe. The men were above him, on a small catwalk. A small groan made him turn. There was his father, tied to a chair beside him, battered a bruised but alive. He strained to escape, only to the laughter and jeering of the men above. Damien looked around more closely. There were holes...in the walls. Below them was a grate. " So...figure it out yet?" One guy called down. Damien glared up at them with hatred. "Yup. Smart kid. You're gonna die now! SO..." the man turned, still showing his decaying teeth in an ugly grin. "Y'all have a nice time in hell!" he reached over and hit a switch. All at once the ground began to shake, causing Damien's dad to groan even more.  
  
"Dad?" Damien asked, trying to move towards his father. The old man opened his eyes a bit, and gave a weak smile.  
  
"Damien...where...?" Damien struggled with all his remaining strength to break free, but it was no use. His father glanced around, and frowned confusidly. "Why aren't you at home...?" he said, slurring his words. Damien didn't respond. At that moment from all the holes in the wall came a black, heavy dust. It poured from every area, filling up the tunnel quickly. Damien screamed up at the men, one long scream of utter hate. Not just for what was happening, but for harming his father. The dust piled up like sand around their ankles...their feet. His father suddenly snapped awake. "We're in one of the machines!" He cried in realization. "The gunpowder chemicals..." he wailed, staring at the dust in horror. The man above just continued to laugh, pointing while the two struggled to lift their shoulders above the ever-rising dust. Damien looked at his dad with tears in his eyes, as it rose to his neck. "Dad.." the gunpowder covered his mouth, obscuring his father from his view. His life flashed across his memory, his mother, father, school, his first bike, Emma, the day his mom died, the past 3 hours...all in one second. The last two things Damien thought before his body suffocated were hatred for the men, whom he'd never seen before tonight, and had taken the most precisous thing away from him. His dad. He cried out silently in the powder, one last, mournful cry to his father, before everything went soft and dark, and the pain melted away. Somewhere outside, a crow cawed loudly.  
  
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	4. Part Four

Erika walked along quietly, deep in her own thoughts about nothing in paticular. It was the next afternoon, and the sun was trying it's hardest to peak out from behind the drizzling rain clouds. She had just finished another miserable day at work, sitting in the back room, packaging and sterlyizing needles, with an endless hum of tattoo guns in her ears. The streets were oddly empty and silent, and Erika glanced around confused. Who cared. Just less people to bother her. She walked along for 10 more mintues, through appartment-lined alleyways and back streets. A few company buildings began to show up around her, and she shivered. Her pace quickened, along with her heart. It was this part of town, this area that was the metal ball on her shackles, the thing that made her life a prision and hell, that she could never find the means to get away from. She bit the inside of her lip, trying with all her might to will back the painful, terryfing memories that always awoke around this street...she tasted blood. Nothing helped. The memories came, flashes of sceens, walking down the street, turning that corner, comming eye-to-eye with the man that beat and tortured her mentally and physically for no reason but his own sick pleasure. One person, along with the absence of kindness and understanding from a hundred others, had made her feel always seperated from the rest of mankind, alone in her dark thoughts forever. And there it was. The tall stone building, littered with graffitti, as normal looking a place as you could get. For no reason at all Erika sat down on the curb across from it. There was a heavy feeling in the air and you could almost taste it. One of the doors on the building was open, she noticed. Erika took a deep breath and mentally slapped herself. She was tired, bone tired of being afraid. She hadn't clawed her way out of depression, just to be thrown back into it by one shadow-lurking bastard with murder on his drunken brain. Once, long ago, when her family had seemed ready to rip apart, the city had seemed a utopia, a haven from it all. She'd actually counted down the days untill she was legally old enough to move away, and now she wanted back. But no more. This was her life, and she had the power to control it. No more being the goddess of saddness. She stood up straight, filled with a strange confidence. She forced her mind to believe that she could face her fears and finally lay them to rest. Stiff-legged, she walked toward the abodandened building that had haunted many of her day and nightmares. The man who almost killed her had been working late, and apparently had steped outside for some fresh air. But maybe the pressure had been too much, because he had used booze to help through the night. Too much. Erika had been in the wrong place at the wrong time when the mans hidden anger at no one flashed out and let itself loose on an innocent girl. Herself. One step at a time, she climbed towars the open door. Each memories came, worse than the last. Being dragged inside to his office. He was some sort of important boss or something, to have his own office. It was off of a huge area of machinery, at rest in the late night. She pushed open the door quietly, trying to remember where the place was. She had to get there, something pulled her on. Once she got to that room, all would be well. But something else pulled her on, a voice in her head, begging for her help. She almost turned and ran, wondering why she was making herself be in this god-awful place again. But the voice continued, needing her help for something, wanting her to start a reaction. There was something there. She turned corner after corner, winding her way deeper and deeper into the heart of the building. Up stairs, around, down, she lost track of time. Then the machinery came into her view, and her breath caught in her throat. She remembered every painful moment, up untill she kicked the man in the head, knocking him unconcous. Unknowinly she began to tiptoe, afraid the empty metal would awaken at her footfalls. She looked in every door, but couldn't find the supervisors office.  
  
Her mind was exausted almost as much as she was, and she sat down hard on the lip of a giant metal bowl-type machine. She glanced at it absently, and ran her hand through the black gunpowder that almost came to the brim. It must have been 7 feet deep, she mused. The dust sifted through her fingers like air, leaving her hands blackened. Something touched her fingers, causing her to jerk back suddenly. Nothing moved, as she held her breath. A minute, two minutes passed by. She smoothed back her long hair and tried to calm her overwired nerves. She finally let her breath go and sighed. As if to prove her mind wrong she gently put her hand back into the powder. There was something in there, and her curosity overcame her. She shoveled the powder away, trying to reveal whatever was hidden benieth. It was probably some article of clothing that a careless worker had let drop into the machinery. But her hands worked rythmically, and she stoped. Every fiber in her body stood still in a kind of absolute paralyis. There, a few inches from the lip of the bowl, was the side of a boys face. He looked about her age, maybe 18, with black hair and closed eyes. There was one difference. He was dead. A spasm of an unknown emotion racked her body, and she jumped up with a speed she'd never known before, practically throwing herself down every flight of staris, needing to put distance between the body and her. She reached the loby and began to shove things aside, looking for a phone. There wasn't one at the large main desk. She opened the nearest door to find one, and a scream burst from her mouth. Across the paper-littered desk was the supervisor, she knew him right away. The papers were soaked with blood, and his eyes were rolled back into his head. She screamed and screamed, not able to contain any amount of sense. She fell out the front door, sobbing wildly at the dead faces ethched before her eyes. By some miracle there was a police car at the end of the street, and the young officer got out of his car as she ran to him. Her knees colasped right as her caught her, holding her shoulders.  
  
"What? What's happened?" she couldn't answer, the tears where choking her. All she managed to do was point to the building. The officer gently moved her to the backseat of the patrol car and shut her in, radioing for backup as he drew his guna nd ran back toward the building. Erika hugged her knees and rocked, a stragnly calming motion that humans do without thinking in times of great stress. The boy, his closed eyes, the blood around the supervisor, burned in her memory, refusing to go away.  
  
Time slipped by quickly, more cops came, dawn broke, and eventually the bodies were found and recovered, coming out on strechers in black bags. Erika got driven home, where she fell into a fitful sleep for the next day. The police questioned her, and the famous yellow tape went up around the factory. She eventually calmed down enough to hear the story. One boy, a worker and the supervisor had been apparently murdered, and some plans for a super weapon had been taken from the supervisors office. The boy she'd found and his father had been drowned in the powder, then it seemed that the killers found the boss and got whatever they wanted directly from him. Erika said she understood, and was allowed to go home. She skipped work for a week and was promtly fired, but it didn't matter. On the day of the funerals, she got out one of her nicest black dresses and attendend, standing silently among the small crowd of sobbing mourners. She looked at the casket of the boy and his father. Her momentary terror was gone, now all she could do was wonder. What could have happened to end this boys life? It was sad. Someone so young, without a chance to really live...she placed a rose on his casket and went home, to her appartment, quiet with her ponderings.  
  
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	5. Part Five

A year passed, and life went back to it's normal, dreary ways. Time pulled Erika along mercilessly, with many jobs that all ended quickly. Her canvas remained white and unpainted, since her masterpiece hadn't yet revealed itself. She found the days a tiny bit easier since the murders. The death of the man who had raped her helped ease the grip depression had put upon her thoughts. Damien and his father had been buried, with a small ceremony consisting of many crying friends and one hysterical kindergarden teacher, who had thrown herself onto her lovers coffin, sobbing for the life they would never have together. But time pulls all humans fowards, and painful memories dull in everyones mind. Damien and his father were soon just that, memories. Of a nice boy and his loving father who had been killed, how sad, by some street thugs. Just like many other people in the city. The killers were never identified, and the case was pushed into the back of some filling cabnet in the police station, never to be heard of again. Or so they thought. Anyone who went to visit Damiens grave would notice a large, midnight black crow perched not far away. Never two, or three, as crows often travel. But always the one, and if anyone had bothered to check, would have seen that it was always the same one, never moving from his perch above the grave for an entire year. Snow, sun, rain and hail all passed by, but the crow nevered moved, never ate, never streched his glossy wings. But no one bothered to check, and when they placed a flower by the grave they'd notice a crow and dismiss it as nothing. Erika came to the grave once in a while to pay respects. It helped to ease the nightmares that came once in a while, of black powder pushing her down, pressing into every pore of her body, squezing the breath out of her, while she cried out to no one who listened. Visiting the boy's grave helped, but she always left with a sence of unease. Finally it was an entire year later. A cold wind shuffled the few long-dead roses from the base of the gravestone. It was midnight, barely minutes from when Damien had screamed his last cry of rage towards the men. For the first time the crow shifted and spread his wings, which made a loud rustling in the crisp air. He cawed shrilly, over and over, hopping from one foot to the other in agitation. The ground shook, tremmors rocked the earth and gravestones. The crow gave a loud, screaming caw, and the ground split apart with a mighty clap of thunder. A coffin, long under the dirt, was revealed and opened. Damien lay there, looking exactly as he had a year ago, barely dead. The crisp air filled his colapsed lungs, his heart pulsed for the first time in ages, blood coursed through long unused veins. His eyes opened slowly, and a spasm shook his body. Breathe, out, in, out. One by one the basic functions of life were remembered, and he sat up painfully. Pain, which he hadn't known in so long, pain wracked his mind and body, everything hurt, the breath that rattled in his chest caused searing pain. He slowly pulled himself up into the enveloping silence and darkness. His name...was Damien. A rush of memories made him yell out in shock, as his entire life flashed before his eyes and took it's rightful place in his memories. He lay on the ground for several minutes, just breathing, remembering his last night alive. He'd died, that fact shone clear in his mind, but everyhting that was happening now eluded him. The crow let him rest for a while, before it hopped down to his side. He glanced at it. It looked intently at him. They stared at each other for a full minute, Damien with no idea what was happening. The crow suddenly screeched and thrust it's beak with surprising strength into his exposed arm. He screamed and jumped back, as a long wound opened and began to bleed. He stared at the crow in shock. Crows didn't attack people, did they? He was about to scare it away when the pain from the cut suddenly stopped. He looked at the cut, and the bloodstained sleeve. It was gone. Absolutley gone. He stared in disbelief, before on an impulse her grabbed a nearby stone and smashed into his hand with it. He cried out in pain when he felt a bone snap, but in a moment the pain stoped, and his hand was fine. The crow spread it's wings and flew a few feet away, then turned it's golden eyes back to him, as if saying come. Damien stood up shakely, having no other idea of what to do. The crow would fly ahead, then wait for the poor dead boy to stumble on weak feet to catch up. What he needed was rest, every with every step her took he felt a newfound power filling him, but at the same time an overwhelming exaustion. He was alive, he was dead, he couldn't be hurt, and was following a crow. The grey clouds parted and a steady, hard driving rain began to pour. Damien's already slow progress was delayed further, as he lost sight of the crow often in the tourrent of water. His clothes were blackened with dirt, as was his face. The crow flew to a door and perched above it, inviting the tired boy to rest. Damien took one step up onto the stood and colasped. His mind had been overloaded, and all he wanted was to sleep. Not that he had any choice, sleep was closing on him like a net, and he couldn't escape. To ease his troubled thoughts, he promised himself that once he woke up, everything would be figured out. But for now, the hard concrete steps seemed inviting, and he fell into unconcousness.  
  
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	6. Part Six

Erika was jogging for a change. The clouds overhead seemed to press close to the ground, and looked about ready do let loose all the water they'd collected. She'd just washed her shirt yesterday, and she really didn't have the extra $3 to get it cleaned again. It's probably be cheaper in the long run to just buy a used washing machine and dryer, but she just didn't have the cash right now, nor whenever she thought of it. Her mind was on getting home quick, and paying for next weeks food, and getting some fish for that little black cat that'd been stopping at her window lately...she'd named him Soli, short for solitude, because his predicidment reminded her much of hers. Alone, not much of a house, no food...she didn't notice the figure in the shadows on her stoop, untill she actually triped over it.  
  
"Ahh!" she yelped, as her right foot caught on the shape, nearly sending her sprawling into the door. She grabed the railing in the nick of time. She jumped back when she saw the thing was actually a person, who hadn't shown any reaction to her tripping. She looked all down the street, but not a soul was in sight. What should she do? She gently tapped the persons shoulder, causing him to shift a bit, but beyond that nothing. If it was some drunken hobo, she was gonna kick him in the gut. Just as she was about to, the figure groaned a little bit and moved his arm, revealing a white, sickly face that was oddly familar. She drew a sharp intake of breath. He looked like he was dead! There was obviously something wrong, and a strange, unfamiliar emotion welled up inside her. Pity. Without knowing why, she bent over to lift the person by the armpits up into a sitting position. The only strugle he put up was a breif shuddered breath, before his head droped to his chest. She groped for her housekey, and dragged him into the foyer. How she was going to get him upstairs, she had no idea. None of her downstairs neighbors seemed to be home (not that she trusted them...the old woman glared at her and her husband leered) so with a grunt Erika began the painful task of getting the person up to her room. A million thoughts of doubt crossed her mind, screaming at her 'why are you helping a stranger???' but it never occured to her to actually leave him. He could be a muderer, a pysco...but there was something very familar about his face, that made her heart wrench. But nothing rang a bell. He weighed hardly nothing, but it was still awkard, dragging something larger than yourself up a flight of stairs, which were in dire need of repair. He sighed once in a while, but for all the world looked like he was asleep! She opened her door and lugged him in, chuckling a little at a passing thought she'd had, how she probablly looked like a murderer dragging a body away. Hopefully no one saw her and called the cops, it would be a little tough to explain. "Oh, yeah officer. I found this guy on my doorstep, and I decided to drag 'em upstairs!"  
  
After she cleared some junk aside and had laid the stranger on the bed, she sat back to have a look at him. He was beyond pale, his face had no color whatsoever. His whole body was thin, like it was streched over a frame. But every second that she looked, that thinness seemed to be disapeering. His clothes were wrinkled and very, very dirty, a black sweater shirt and black dress pants, with a white colar around his neck. He kinda looked...like he'd been dressed formally. Then fallen in the mud. And slept in the mud for a few days. Erika looked around for an old blanket to throw over his sleeping form, then went to her small cabnet to find something to eat. There was something nagging at the back of her mind (besides the fact that a nearly dead stranger was asleep on her cot). Where had she seen him..where...she shrugged. Now what to do with him. She wanted to get the ambulance there before he woke up, in case he really was a pysco murderer who'd kill her at first sight. But the nearest phone was 4 blocks away, and by now the rain had started up again in earnest.  
  
Erika sighed, and made up two peanut butter and cheese sandwiches (her favorite), one for her, and one for the stranger. She ate hers quickly and left the other on the short table next to her table, then got up and locked the door behind her. It wasn't like he was gonna steal anything, there wasn't a hell of a lot to steal, and he wouldn't get out untill she got back with a doctor or something. The door slammed shut in protest as she stepped out into the rain, giving up on her clean shirt to walk the four blocks to the payphone. *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ *~*~* 


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